


Death of a Thrall

by Thonkus



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Blood, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s02e17 The Gamesters of Triskelion, Harnesses, Hurt/Comfort, IT SOUNDS HORNY BUT ITS REALLY NOT!?!?!??!, Jim actually kills Shahna in this fic. She is just fucking dead, Kirk is fucking mourning, M/M, Minor Character Death, Protective Spock (Star Trek), Shahna Is Fucking DEAD, Specifically Kirk In A Harness, i derailed and it got sad though, look man jim in a harness fucked me UP, this was going to be a horny fic though full disclosure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:09:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28874367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thonkus/pseuds/Thonkus
Summary: There are some days when Jim gets cocky. There are days when he forgets he can feel pain. He’s endured so much for his ship, for his crew, that he sometimes thinks he can take absolutely anything.Then there are days where Jim is lying on his back, covered in blood, worse-than-half naked in his bedroom.// OR, in which i decided nO ONE was talking about s02e017 enough and decided i need to change that.
Relationships: James T. Kirk & Spock
Kudos: 8





	Death of a Thrall

There are some days when Jim gets cocky. There are days when he forgets he can feel pain. He’s endured so much for his ship, for his crew, that he sometimes thinks he can take absolutely anything.  
  
Then there are days where Jim is lying on his back, covered in blood, worse-than-half naked in his bedroom.  
  


* * *

  
  
Jim has procrastinated checking into sickbay long enough that he’s honestly a bit worried that the sound of the door is Bones coming in to drag is ass down. After hurriedly beaming up from Triskellion, McCoy immediately urged him, and all the others, to get into sickbay after taking such a beating; Jim had assured him he’d get there, albeit eventually.  
  
Half an hour has passed, and he’s yet to report to Bones'. Hell, he’s not even taken the fucking training harness off. Jim is _absolutely_ getting blood - Both his, and Shahna’s - All over the sheets. Well, not just Shahna’s - All of his… _opponents'_. But, Shahna is the only one haunting him so forcefully at the moment. It was the deal he made. He gambled his ship for three Thrall lives. It was a chance he had to take. She died, limp beneath him, with a spray of blood. An innocent, strong girl, dead at Kirk’s shaking hands.  
  
  
  
“Captain?”

  
  
The voice belongs to Spock. Jim knows this, but he still lifts his head weakly to look at the figure, stood just past the doorway to Jims quarters. He must’ve been standing there for an uncomfortable minute before speaking up, considering Kirk was too lost in his spiraling to focus on the opening door.  
  
Spock stands, hands clasped behind his back, with an expertly calculated gaze. Spock always stands like this; Kirk always takes it as a challenge. Like old stories of stoic royal guards in England, proposing opportunity to try everything one had in him to make them break. Of course, with Spock, it proved less so of a difficulty for Kirk, but offered much more reward than simple amusement. If he could draw one of those smiles from Spock, the smiles that didn’t change anything visible in his countenance, but made his eyes seem to twinkle in a code only Jim could understand? He would be positively giddy for the rest of the day, completely and utterly pleased with himself.  
  
  
“Jim?”  
  
  
Spock’s voice calls out again, pulling Kirk out of his distracted, and admittedly fond staring.  
  
Jim raises his brows, to match Spock’s. He bites back a _‘You come here often?’_ , because he knows the answer is a perfectly articulate _‘Of course, Captain. You know this.’_  
  
Instead, Jim opts for: “Did Bones put you up to this?”  
  
  
Spock doesn’t break eye contact, but tilts his head slightly in something Jim, if he wanted to tease the Vulcan, would read as a silent hum of amusement.  
  
  
“I did, indeed, speak to Doctor McCoy before coming. I believe he claimed, rather foolishly, that I would be the only one capable of drawing you from your quarters.”  
  
  
This, now _this_ intrigues Jim. Wincing, he shimmies himself (Which earns him a less twinkly flash in Spock’s eyes) to sit up on his bed. If Spock notices the harness Jim is still wearing, he doesn’t say anything.  
  
  
“Well, that’s purely illogical, isn’t it Spock? Bones is more than fit to get me to sickbay, and furthermore, I’m more than fit to get myself there.” A lazy smile plays on his lips, and he knows it. If his shoulder wasn’t hurting like hell, he’d perhaps even lean himself forward, resting his chin on his hand, and batting his eyelashes to Spock. Jim, daringly, continues.  
  
“Y’know, Mister Spock, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you just wanted to check on me yourself.”  
  
  
“Well, Captain, I believe it to be a very good thing for the both of us that you do know better.”  
  
  
There’s a faint trail of playfulness, but no true sparkle hidden in Spock’s eyes. He must be serious about getting Kirk to sickbay. Jim’s smile falters into a tired line, and he leans his lashed-up back against the cool, soothing wall of his room. The pain is almost strangely comfortable on his cuts, but he still lets a hiss of pain seep through his lips. Jim wonders if he would have let that happen if anyone else came to check on him.  
  
  
“You are still wearing the training harness, from Triskellion.” Spock observes. His dark eyes dart down to Kirks chest, if only for a moment.  
  
Ever the opportunist, Jim smirks. “Oh, you noticed, did you? I thought that was you staring in the transporter room.”  
  
He does his best to keep his tone steady, but Spock can surely tell, even without the hoarse grunt of pain Jim let slip, that he’s not doing well. Jim is sure of this, because Spock takes a silent step forward, and another, his hands traveling around to the front of him. He raises a brow to Kirk as he draws closer, and when met with no refusal, his ginger hands begin working the clasps of the training harness.  
  
Spock’s hands are cold. This isn’t a new fact Jim has discovered, but he one is thankful for as Spock’s hands act as cooling ice packs upon his wounds, even though they only brush lightly across Jim’s bare skin to undo the clasps.  
  
It’s not a complicated mechanism by any means, and Spock’s hands are away as soon and as silently as they came. Spock takes the harness and delicately folds it, setting it on Jim’s nightstand with the upmost care. Jim is secretly thankful for this.  
  


Though he knew her for an incredibly short amount of time, it’s still a trace of Shahna. Right now, he would kill a man before losing that harness. Maybe he would kill three.  
  
Spock clears his throat, now standing only a foot away from Jim, but with his resumed position of elegance. Kirk, with only a look, asks him to sit on the bed with him. Spock complies.  
  


“While neither I, nor Doctor McCoy are psychologists, getting to sickbay would likely help one of your many current predicaments.”

  
Jim, tucking away Spock’s subtle assurance of his company in a corner of his mind, scrubs a hand over his face. An icy shower sounds like the only thing that would do him good at the moment, but getting off of his bed feels like a greater effort than it’s worth.  
  
It feels only fair that he sit in dirt, blood, and self pity, after what he did to Shahna. What he _had_ to do, he reminds himself, halfheartedly. Images of her slit neck torment Jims mind. It’s like he can see it, again and again, in the corner of each eye. A valiant warrior stripped of her trust, pride, and life.  
  
  
Jim sighs. A beat passes.  
  
  
“…Her mother was killed in something called a ‘freestyle’.” He manages something between a choke and a spit of the words, unable to choose between grief and anger.  
  
  
Spock pretends to not know what Jim is talking about. “Shahna?” He asks. “The alien on Triskellion, who acted as your Drill Thrall.”  
  


Jim nods. “She was born on that planet, and she never got to see anything outside of The Providers games.”  
  
He shakes his head, and then his fist. He then, through groans, pushes himself up out of bed, eyes darting around, desperately trying to remove the images from his mind. He’s not actually sure who’s blood he’s covered in, but it all feels like Shahna’s. It’s in his fucking hair, for Christ’s sake.  
  
“She wanted so badly to go to the stars, even after just a day of knowing what they really were. I told her I’d take her, I promised her, and damnit, I meant to, but we _had to get out!_ ”  
  
Jim sweeps through his quarters, picking up and putting down trinkets and objects on his vicinity, pacing around, gesturing as wildly as he can muster between pained groans. Something. he needs to do _something_. He’d see himself to the training deck if both Bones and Spock wouldn’t thoroughly chew him out for it.  
  
She’d not gotten to live a day without a fucking collar on. The thought makes Jim feel nauseas all over again. Being owned, being 'Vended', being a Thrall. All of it was inhumane to the highest capacity.

A hand reaches out for Jim. Hovering in midair, waiting to proceed. It’s Spock's, of course. Without saying a word, Jim puts down the PADD he had occupied his own hands with, and takes Spock’s into his own. He’s then gently guided back onto the bed, sat next to him. Jim knows he really should get to sickbay. He’s wasting his, Spock’s, and Bones’ time, all on wallowing in a pool of his own emotion. _He knows_ he should get to sickbay, but a few more minutes can’t hurt.  
  
Jim lets himself fall backwards onto the bed, looking up at his ceiling. The stiff mattress and scratchy sheets are nowhere near as comfortable as the wall, nor Spock’s expertise hands upon his wounds. He stays put anyways, granting himself to look at Spock, while he lays longways across the bed.  
  
Spock looks back at him, with another brow raise, this one laced with confusion. His shoulders tense, and he takes a sharp breath in, before shifting himself to lean back with Kirk. They both stare at the ceiling, Spock’s eyebrows ever so slightly furrowed, and his mouth in a tight line. He looks like putting himself in such a casual position gives him physical pain. His hands are clasped together, atop his stomach, subtly picking at fingernail.  
  
Jim scoots a touch closer to his First Officer. Close enough for His bare bicep to brush against Spock’s arm. The Vulcan relaxes at this gesture. Operating in such a silent, secretive manner, Jim wonders if he’s the only one who picks up on Spock’s mannerisms like this. He secretly hopes he is, for both their sakes.  
  
Silence washes over them for a minute or two. Thoughts run wildly through Jim, his eyes scanning the room for anything of Shahna. His eyes always make their way back to his first officer.

  
“She was beautiful.” Spock states.  
  
  
Jim almost bursts into tears right there and then.  
  
  
“She _was._ And she didn’t know it. No one had ever told her.” Jim’s choked sobs assault his words. He bites his inner lip to stifle any further noise.  
  
  
“Captain, I presume you told her that, yes?”  
  
  
He did. He meant every word he told Shahna on Triskellion, but his crew came first. Ulterior motives taint their conversations memory like bursting packs of ink. Kirk nods.  
  
  
“If your word is anything to go by, I would say then, that she did indeed know. Albeit for a relatively brief amount of time.”

Jim turns his head to get a better view of Spock. The Vulcans eyes bore holes into the ceiling, never roaming anywhere except up.  
  
It’s a strange, Spock Way of comfort, but it is comfort to Jim. He lets out another sigh. It isn’t his first over Shahna, and it won’t be his last, but it encompasses more release than guilt.  
  
Jim offers a smile to Spock, one that just barely kisses his eyes. Spock glances to him in his peripheral.  
  
Their hands shift, and settle together in a feathery display of affection. A gentle Ozh’esta.  
  
  
  


* * *

Jim doesn’t get to sickbay until far late in the evening, Spock accompanying him. The pair immediately welcomed by Bones’ delightedly irritated teasing.  
  
  
“The hell took the two of you so long? And dare I ask why Jim is missing that shirt of his?”  
  
“Nothing as crudely insulting as you’re implying, Doctor.”  
  
“Ah, so you just stood spewing ‘Logic’ to a patient half-dead in his quarters for four hours, then.”  
  
“...Something of the sort.”

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING! This has been sitting in my drafts for absolute *ages* begging for any form of reworking, but I'm frankly indifferent towards the damn thing, and will simply be posting it as is. Could I improve it? Absolutely. Will I? No.
> 
> Although, I do have another, much longer Spirk fic planned out. (A much more blatantly gay one, at that.) It'll take me quite a while to write it all (I prewrite all my fanfics), but it's on the table, regardless! 
> 
> Thank y'all for reading!


End file.
